History lives

It’s walked out of the books and onto the screen.

My grandfather collected books about Lincoln. Abraham, not Nebraska. I’ve read a few of them. Not all, by any means. So, I know a bit about our 16th president.

Most citizens of the United States do.

He’s one of the few that everybody remembers and everybody reveres.

Sometimes, we forget he was a masterful politician.

Go see Stephen Spielberg’s new movie, Lincoln.

It’s going to sweep the awards. It deserves to do so.

What a gorgeous film on practically every level.

The acting—across the board—superb! Daniel Day-Lewis is the Lincoln I would have requisitioned if I could have imagined the perfect actor—and my imagination would have fallen short of this performance. The supporting cast: David Strathairn, Tommy Lee Jones, James Spader, Sally Field, Hal Holbrook and countless others disappear into the time and the story and the persons. After the first flash of recognition, all their star qualities, the tricks and trademarks, vanish as if they had never been. We are watching William Seward, Thaddeus Stephens, W. N. Bilbo, Mary Todd Lincoln, Preston Blair.

The script is fascinating. Based largely on Doris Kearns Goodwin’s A Team of Rivals, Tony Kushner has transcended the usual bio pic to give an in-depth study of the machinations surrounding the passing of the 13th Amendment to the Constitution. The wheeling and dealing, the lofty ideals and the base political machinations are all laid out before us.

The cinematography is beautiful. The film is shot in a palette almost indescribable. Suffice it to say that the historical details of setting and costume are crisp and clean, and yet, the whole thing has a patina of age, a not-quite-sepia tone of old photographs.

The direction—okay, I have a few quibbles—but the overall achievement is of such high quality that I’m not going to pick nits.

The score—one of the few movie soundtracks I feel I ought to buy.

I am going to buy the DVD. The minute I can.

This movie is a FIND. With a capital F.I.N.D. Run—with a capital R—to see it.

Why else?

“What we’re really talking about is a wonderful day set aside on the fourth Thursday of November when no one diets. I mean, why else would they call it Thanksgiving?”
~ Erma Bombeck

Why else, indeed?

This is the official Thankful Thursday.

We’re all thankful for health, wealth, love and friendship, roofs over our heads, food on our tables, peace in our time. (Well, maybe not today. It is the day we spend with family, after all. Somebody’s bound to have a fight.)

My official Thanksgiving gratitude list probably looks a lot like yours. I don’t have kids—and you may. You might not have a new sofa—and I do. Our different jobs are at different stages of success. Our bones are creaking more or less loudly depending on our different ages. Some of us live in colder states than others. Some of us even live under various different systems of government in different countries.

Some of us have had wonderful luck this year, and some of us have faced hardship and sadness. Some of us might even have trouble thinking of something for which to be thankful today.

So, let’s take a moment, just a moment, to remember this.

Now.

In this moment.

If you are reading this.

You are one of the luckiest people on earth.

870 million people in the world do not have enough to eat. *

780 million people lack access to fresh water.**

Almost half the world, over 3 billion people, live on less than $2.50 a day.***

More than 34 million people worldwide are living with HIV.****

There have been bombs dropping in Israel and Gaza for over a week.

Let’s not even talk about the Sudan.

Just, in general, the mere fact of having a computer, electricity, running water, something for dinner, puts us way ahead of far too many people.

Sure, we’ve all got problems and things that make us unhappy.

Let us be thankful, however, that so many of them are First World problems.

Enjoy the food, the family and the fights.

Enjoy your luck.

Happy Thanksgiving. (Someday, for everybody.)

* World Food Project

** Global Issues

*** Water

**** UNAIDS

Roses in December

“God gave us memory so that we might have roses in December.”
~J. M. Barrie

Today, I am wondering where my mind went.

I nearly forgot to do this blog post. How is that possible? I know I have to do a daily blog post. I’ve done one, day after day, for months. Nearly six months now. And, today, it is only by accident, it seems, that there will be something appearing.

I thought of it several times yesterday. I had a couple of topics in mind.

And then. . .I forgot.

This is a somewhat disturbing trend.

Definitely something to wonder about—where my mind went.

On the other hand, one could wonder about the equally amazing phenomenon that nearly the first thing I thought of when I awoke—far too early this morning—was OMG! I never did my blog post.

Memory is a strange thing.

An odd tightrope.

Sometimes, it seems like the more you put into it the more it can hold. When I am very, very busy with multiple projects and hundreds of details, I can often track them like a bloodhound. When I have less to do, it’s like the old brain goes on a slow boat to Bermuda.

Sometimes, though, when I am very, very busy with multiple projects and hundreds of details, the whole thing springs a leak. Multiple leaks. Things start slipping through the cracks, and the cracks—well, they start to resemble the proverbial sieve. Then, when I have less to do, a single-minded purpose, that one thing can become nearly an obsession.

An odd tightrope.

Some days, you over-balance in one direction; some days, it’s the other.

I’ve always had a really good memory. It’s a bit disconcerting when this kind of thing happens. As I get older, too, the occasional missed connection gets more worrying. Is this a trend? I wonder.

I think I’ll spend part of today learning a poem or something.

Memory is a muscle, too.

And I like roses. . .December or otherwise.

(But first, I’m going back to bed. Later, ‘gators.)

I can see clearly now

Through the windows, anyway.

This may be one of those tips that everybody has known for a millenium. . .except me. On the off chance, however, that you missed it over in your parallel universe, too, I’m going to pass it on.

I may have mentioned that Casa Lagarto has a lot of windows.

This means, of course, that there are a lot of windows to clean. It’s true that window cleaning can be put off for a while. Sometimes a long while. I suspect all of us have deep sympathy for the cliché household help who states firmly, “I don’t do windows.”

On the other hand, there are times in your life when windows must be “done.” This is especially true when one of your home’s salient features is the view.

Being a child of my era, I have tended to rely on Windex® as my window-cleaner of choice. I’ve used some generic versions, and they don’t seem to work so well. I’ve used vinegar. It’s okay, but rather pungent.

I have recently stumbled upon—as in, found on the internet—the surprising (to me, anyway) fact that dish detergent works wonders. Mixed with water, of course, and applied with the kind of squeegee that has a sponge on one side and a rubber blade on the other.

Streak free!

And, I suspect, cheaper than all the specialty cleaners. I’m saving on paper towels for one thing.

Of course, there are a couple of drawbacks. A bucket of water is a bit heaver than a squeeze bottle. And the whole thing is a far drippier process. (Hint: Only use the dish soap and water process on the outside of your windows.)

Oh, well.

The windows look good. I’m settling for that.

The sun’ll come out. . .

Tomorrow.

I’ve been singing that for about a week.

Unfortunately.

It sticks in your head. Along with visions of little red-headed orphan girls.

It’s a horrible song—of immense popular appeal.

(It should be noted that its horribleness is not due to any intrinsic compositional or lyrical flaws. It’s just that it will not go away!)

The thing is. . .the sun may or may not come out tomorrow. I don’t know.

I do know that it came out yesterday. And it’s out today. And. . .yay!

Because it was getting very, very depressing.

It is truly fine for it to be gray and gloomy in the north. It’s the paradigm for the fall. But this is the Sunshine State. Got that? Sunshine. It’s in all the ads. So I expect. . .you know. . .sunshine.

Not only do I expect it, but I need it. We have to decorate the dock. The Boat Parade is coming. Not for about a month, but still. When the boats come by, we have to have the lights up. And I need sunshine for that. Not warmth, necessarily, but sunshine. It’s very difficult to get in the holiday mood when it’s all foggy and misty.

Dock decorations are hard enough. One year we tried for a New York skyline, but you can’t make a good corner with a rope light. It put a damper on our creativity (to say nothing of a vaguely pornographic twist on our Empire State Building), so we’ve given up murals. Now, we just try not to fall in the water as we’re stringing the lights up along the roof and around the pilings. We have acquired a nice lighted peacock lawn decoration this year—although possibly not for the dock.

Peacocks are big in my family. My grandparents used to have a bunch of them hanging around the farm. In fact, their descendants are still over there yelling away, wandering the highways and byways. And all of us have various vases and umbrella stands full of feathers.

That’s another little miracle.

You can just walk around behind a peacock in the late spring, early summer, and pick up those beautiful works of art.

So, I’m delighted to have this light-up bird. I look forward to seeing him twinkle away.

But, I’m more delighted to have some sunshine. . .and I definitely look forward to the voice of Li’l Orphan Annie fading off my internal audio track!

Bet your bottom dollar.

Sssssteam heat–we got. . . .

Not really.

High on the list of things I miss from living in New York (in addition to the laundry room) is steam heat.

Oh, the luxury of coming in out of the snow to a toasty warm apartment and changing into shorts and a t-shirt in the middle of January! We almost never turned the radiators on. The heat from the risers—the pipes that carried the steam to the apartments above us—was more than enough to keep us comfortable.

You’d think I’d be warmer now that I live in Florida.

Ha!

It is true that the outside temperature is warmer. Inside, however, is a whole other story!

My house has at least four climate zones. Upstairs, the air is one temperature. Downstairs, another. My office, a third, and the sunken living room is a fourth. I’m betting there’s about ten degrees difference from one area to another.

And, of course, it’s a damp cold. Not good. Not good at all.

I’m adapting.

I may spend the winter upstairs. I may break out the sweaters and leggings for the times I need to be downstairs.

(I do realize that normal people might think I’m crazy. The house is not that cold. It’s just not toasty.)

I suspect finally getting ceiling fans will be a big improvement. I also know it will be better if it would get colder outside. That would make the heat cycle on more often. (A dilemma. Warmth? Bank account?)

Eventually, I will get the ceiling fans. I will get the gas fireplace repaired. I will bring the kerosene heater in from the garage. I might even buy a pair of slippers in a bigger size so that I can wear two or three pairs of socks.

I could always wear my magic hat. (Ask my nieces and nephews.)

While I’m thawing my toes here, you might enjoy this little clip from the 1957 film version of The Pajama Game with Carol Haney and some quintessential Bob Fosse choreography

Stay warm!

Celebrating the dark ages

Technologically speaking.

I bought a phone yesterday for $2 bucks.

A corded phone.

The thing is—I have this house. It’s a big house. It came with a phone jack in every room. (Almost.) Plus the garage and the dock. That’s a total of about eleven jacks. And I came with exactly three phones. Well, five if you count the extra handsets to the cordless phone.

One of the handsets fell off the hood of the car over by the chicken church. (Don’t ask.) Anyway, it’s gone. Run over by a car. Eaten by an alligator. Something.

Lost to me forever, however it happened.

The other two handsets are, at any given moment, in need of new batteries.

I know, I know.

Many people have switched to a completely cellular communication system.

I’m not one of them.

I’m not a “millenial.”

Sue me.

I like corded phones.

I hear better on them. It’s easier to hold a handset between your ear and your shoulder and do two things at once. They don’t need batteries. I don’t have to remember to charge them. They tend to stay in the vicinity of the phone jack instead of ring from beneath sofas and behind bookcases. If a hurricane hits and the cell tower falls, the phone lines might still be up.

I like corded phones.

So, I was very happy to find one at a garage sale one block over for $2 bucks. Once upon a time, this was a fairly expensive, 2-line phone. Speaker. Programmable numbers. The works.

It cleaned up nice.

It works.

I only need 3 or 4 more, and I’ll have one everywhere there’s a jack. I think I’ll be spending some more time at garage sales.

Oh. . .and if anybody knows how to get a phone to call itself. . . is that possible?. . . maybe I won’t have to get an intercom system or a sackful of walkie-talkies in order to find my husband. He’s hard to keep track of in all these rooms.

Over thinking it

Is that even possible?

In general, I suppose I would lean towards a “no.” Thinking is almost always a good thing. I think, however, if you’ll take a look at this Friday’s Find, you will probably agree that over thinking is possible. (Over rehearsing is not. That’s a myth. We’ll take that up at another time.)

In some instances—like this Friday Find—we might all agree about over thinking.

Take a look at OverThinkingIt.com. Their descriptive line says the site ‘subjects popular culture to a level of scrutiny it probably doesn’t deserve.’

This is true.

But it’s great geeky fun when they happen to subject any of your personal favorites to analysis. I found them because a post analyzing the Law & Order verdicts of the past 20 years popped up on Digg, and, of course, I had to take a look.

Firstly, having worked with statistics for more years than I care to remember, I find statistical analysis of TV shows that I have viewed to be oddly fascinating. Secondly, I was an extra on a Law & Order episode once. I feel a proprietary interest. (My episode was called Bait, and I am briefly visible when the camera pans the grand jury. Don’t worry if you can’t find me. My own parents didn’t recognize me. I am also briefly visible as a lawyer at the end of a hallway in another courthouse scene. I’m so out of focus in that shot, I wouldn’t have recognized me.)

Anyway, I’ve watched a lot of L&O over the years. Part of it is for the fun of seeing friends—since practically every New York actor worked the show at some point in some fashion. Part of it is the scripts are smart enough to hold your attention while you’re watching and not memorable enough for your brain to recognize that you’ve seen them before while you’re watching them again. So, they’re a reliable temporary distraction.

Which is sort of the point of the OverThinkingIt website. Another excellent distraction.

Like we need one of those, right?

Have fun!

Time passes

And that’s a good thing.

I’m thankful this Thursday for the passage of time. For the wisdom that comes with experience.

Such gloomy days we’ve been having this week. Wind and rain. A slight chill.

It’s all very depressing, and I’ve been feeling a little depressed. That old “what’s the use?” feeling. A little bit of “Nobody likes me, everybody hates me, gonna go eat some worms.”

But, the thing is, I recognize this place. I’ve been here before. And the recognition is something for which to be thankful.

I know that I do not like gloomy days. I like them less now that I live in a house with lots of windows—and, it must be confessed, as yet inadequate lighting. (Lamps. Must put lamps on the shopping list.)

I have a cousin who says she is solar-powered, and I’m thinking, perhaps, it runs in the family. Not that I’m a sun worshipper. I can imagine few things more unpleasant than an afternoon broiling on a beach towel. But I do like the world to look cheerful.

So, it is nice that I have reached a stage in my life when I can feel this way and recognize that it’s because of the recent time change and two days without sunlight and my thermostat set a hair too low—and, probably, because my To Do list bores me and I haven’t anything terribly interesting on the horizon just now. I recognize that the sun will come out, I will get lamps eventually, and something new and good is probably just around the corner.

I know that later tonight my husband will say something funny, or I will have a surprisingly delicious meal, or an old friend will call tomorrow, or I’ll have a sudden idea for a new play, or my new neighbors, when I get them, will be the most awesome people in the world.

See, time passes. And we learn things. And it’s all good.

Why?

I’m just asking.

Why do men—and it must be said—men of a certain age begin to yell at the TV during news broadcasts?

I know no women who do this. (Not saying that there aren’t any—just that I don’t know them.)

Is it, perhaps, because their early spectator training is ball games? Where yelling at the ref is part of the experience?

It just seems a singularly futile thing to do. To say nothing of clearly being bad for one’s blood pressure.

Can’t we all agree that the pundits are going to talk over each other? That they are going to focus on domestic politics when you want to know about the Middle East? Or spend all their time on the Middle East when you want to know what happened with that hurricane? That the ones with whom you don’t agree are going to say utterly ridiculous and stupid things—while interrupting the ones with whom you do agree in a singularly crass and boorish manner?

And can’t we further agree that all those people in the little box? They can’t hear you.

I know when you were children—or, in some cases, when your children were children—that Miss Sally may have looked through her magic mirror and read off your name. And, yes, you could draw a bridge that helped Winky Dink cross the river. But, generally speaking, you really have no capacity to affect the behavior of those on the goggle box.

(The Kool-Aid Bunny Man did come to our house once. But that is another story, and nothing to do with yelling at the television set. In fact, I’m pretty sure the Bunny Man would have frowned on that. )

I’m sure the men I’ve heard yelling at the TV don’t think they’re really making a difference. I’m sure they are just blowing off steam. I just wonder where the dividing line comes between the point where you observe television quietly and the point where you launch into diatribes.

Hint: I think it’s around retirement age.

Maybe it comes with the gold watch?

Elaine Smith Writes

Anything She Wants